The Mad Heiress and the Duke – Miss Georgette Quinby: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 1)

by Isabella Thorne

  Georgette grinned. "What do three heiresses in Town do every day?" she asked.

  "Shop?" Delia suggested.

  "Visit other ladies," Fanny said.

  "Ride in Hyde Park," Georgette offered.

  "Eat at Gunter's." This last one, Fanny delivered with a smile.

  "Precisely," Georgette said. "Very well, let us begin." She motioned to a stack of invitations which she had placed on the table in front of Fanny and Delia. "If you two go through the invitations and read out the ones taking place this week, at someone's home, we can make a list."

  "But how will we know that this is all the invitations?" Delia worried.

  "There are benefits to being a figure of gossip," Georgette said wryly. "I do believe we managed to receive invitations to just about every social event to be held over the next week." Her lips quirked. "Many of them were delivered about a week ago."

  "Shortly after Georgette's new closeness with the Duke of Eversley was discovered by the Ton," Fanny told Delia. "Inevitably the hostesses expressed their regret that somehow, through no fault of their own, our earlier invitation had been mislaid. If there are any events to which we have not been invited, I shall be very much surprised. But we can always make subtle and discrete inquiries when we are asking about Rose Rooms later today."

  Delia looked between the two of them. "I declare," she said. "You two should consider work for the Crown."

  Fanny's eyes brightened eagerly. Georgette cleared her throat. Then motioned to the two young ladies. "Well? Start reading."

  "Oh, right." Fanny reached for the first in the stack. Delia followed suit.

  "Marchmane ball, Thursday," Fanny read aloud. Georgette nodded and wrote it down.

  "Ellicott Musicale?" Delia offered.

  Georgette tapped her quill against her list. "The word the Frenchman used. Could it have included musicale?" she asked Delia.

  Delia shook her head. "No, they would have said during the musicale."

  "Then let us leave that off," Georgette said. “We will only deal with the balls.”

  "Fletcher masquerade?" Fanny asked. She waved the invitation at Delia. "See here," she said, pointing to the additional line the lady had added. "Lady Fletcher would like to express her regret that her earlier invitation appeared to have been placed in the wrong stack, and hopes to see us there."

  Georgette wrote it down. It was possible that someone would simply call that a ball, as opposed to a masquerade.

  "The Prentiss ball?" Delia offered. "No, wait. It's being held in assembly rooms. Scratch that."

  Georgette drew a line through it. They continued through the pile of invitations until they had a list. Ten balls were being held over the course of the next week, in private residences in London.

  "There," Georgette said, looking over the list. "Now we must do what we do best."

  ~.~

  Chapter Ten

  The Park was busy this afternoon. Eversley could see a number of carriages making their way around the Ring.

  He'd needed the air. After a night of imbibing and gambling, he hoped that the chill of winter might help to clear his head. And indeed, he did feel better. But not entirely assuaged of guilt.

  In the clear light of the following day, his note to Miss Quinby seemed somewhat lacking; to send it so late in the day. Surely, she would understand. He had important business. He was a Duke. But he might have delivered it with a touch more feeling. After all, he did not wish to sever their friendship. He did like the woman. Was that all it was, friendship?

  Another gentleman came trotting up alongside him.

  "Ah, Brockton," Eversley said. He nodded at the lord.

  "Eversley," Brockton said. "Glad to see your head does not appear as sore as mine."

  The Duke laughed. "Oh, I dare say it does. I just conceal it. It is my duty as Duke."

  "And does your duty as Duke include stopping by Parliament any time soon?" Brockton asked.

  He pulled up his horse. How dare Brockton question him? As Duke, he was the one who decided when and how he devoted his time.

  "It seems the right thing to do," he heard Miss Quinby say. She had said it several days ago, when he had stopped by to ask her about what she had overheard, and they had spent the afternoon talking. He had mentioned the duties he should assume, and expressed his lack of desire to attend, to dive into the politics and intrigue of Parliament.

  She had looked at him seriously. "By all accounts, you appear to be a man who does the right thing," she had said. "And it seems the right thing to do."

  He glowered at Brockton. "Damn it," he said. "I should be angry with you. I am angry with you, I will have you know. Questioning me. But, consider me duly chastened." He nodded. "I will be there on the morrow."

  Brockton smiled. "Very good, Your Grace," he said. "I shall not keep you any longer. I saw Miss Quinby and her cousin further along the way. No doubt I am preventing you from reaching them." He trotted away.

  Miss Quinby was here? Well, that was not an especially great surprise, he had to admit. It felt as if all of Town was here, in the Park today. And Miss Quinby had an almost alarming knack for appearing wherever it was one needed her.

  He nudged his horse back into a trot. He would just say hello. It would allow him to once more express his regrets over yesterday, and ensure that there were no hard feelings.

  He could see the three ladies, seated in their carriage. They had pulled up alongside a carriage contain Miss Prentiss and the three Smith sisters.

  "Yes, we've discussed it thoroughly, and we've decided to declare it the Rose Room," Miss Markham was saying to one of the Smith sisters. "Although I suppose that isn't terribly original. Delia tells me nearly everyone has a Rose Room."

  "It's true," Miss Ditherfield chimed in. "Both of my aunts have Rose Rooms."

  The Smith sisters blinked. "We haven't a Rose Room," the youngest said, uncertainly.

  Miss Quinby turned to Miss Prentiss. "Have you a Rose Room?" she asked the young lady.

  Miss Prentiss appeared to consider. "We've a sitting room, papered with roses?" she offered. "But no one ever uses it."

  "I suppose that might do," Miss Markham said. She turned and spotted him. "Oh, Your Grace." She bowed her head. Her tone was markedly cool. "Have you a Rose Room?" she asked him.

  He looked at Miss Quinby. Her cousin could not seriously be asking him about his rooms, could she?

  Miss Quinby smiled. "Fanny and I are planning our redecorating. But we fear everyone else already has a Rose Room, and it simply would not do to follow in quite so many footsteps. I mean, honestly, it's as if everyone has a Rose Room. The Marchmanes, the--"

  "The Marchmanes haven't got a Rose Room," one of the other Smith sisters said. "They've only a Blue Room and a Violet Room."

  "Are you quite certain?" Miss Markham asked. "I truly believed they had a Rose Room."

  "No," the young sister said. She appeared quite pleased to be able to impart this information. "I've been all though out their house. No Rose Room, perhaps you mistook the Violet Room."

  “Perhaps,” Miss Quinby said thoughtfully.

  What had he stumbled into? Was this how ladies always spoke? Who could possibly care about Rose Rooms or Violet Rooms? He looked at Miss Quinby, waiting for her to smile and let him in on the joke. Instead, she had discretely pulled out a piece of paper, and appeared to be scratching out an item on a list. She looked up into his eyes, and gave a cool smile. Just like her cousin.

  "You did not say," she said, "whether or not you had a Rose Room, Your Grace."

  "Er, no," he said. "We've a Blue Room, which is actually decorated in a shade of rose?"

  Miss Quinby nodded sagely. "So often the case," she said. Then she turned back to the other ladies, who had been silently watching their exchange.

  "There are so many others," she said, "are there not, Fanny? For example, what of the Fletchers?"

  Miss Prentiss nodded. "Oh, that is true," she said. "They've a Rose Room, to be sure. Lady
Fletcher always insists on the finest decoration."

  "Too true," Miss Markham said. "She does. I have never seen the Rose Room at the Fletcher mansion, I must admit. But perhaps we shall sneak a peek of it, at their ball. Whereabouts in the mansion is it located? Somewhere I might possibly slip off to? Just for ideas, mind you…"

  "Fanny!" Miss Quinby sounded outraged. But Eversley could not help noticing that, from what he could tell, she was not actually upset. She turned to the other young ladies. "Do not encourage her," she said.

  "Oh no," the Smith sisters said.

  "But," one of the sisters said. "If you were to, say, be on the second floor."

  "Off to left," the middle sister supplied.

  "Facing south," the last sister said.

  "You might find it," the first sister said.

  Fanny smiled at them. "Don't tell Georgette," she said in a stage whisper.

  The sisters, and Miss Prentiss, all laughed.

  Eversley watched as Miss Markham turned to Miss Quinby. He looked at Miss Quinby. There. She'd just winked at her cousin. She was not upset with the little chit, quite the contrary

  "Well," Miss Quinby said. "We've kept you young ladies for far too long, going on about rooms. No doubt you are drowning in boredom. We will let you go. But you must come for a visit, sometime next week. And Miss Prentiss, please do tell your mother we look forward to the ball."

  She turned to him. "Your Grace, it was lovely to see you."

  She gave him a cool smile, and then directed the driver to carry on, leaving Eversley in the middle of Hyde Park on his horse, wondering what on earth could be so important about the color of rooms, and why he wished Miss Quinby had favored him with a better smile.

  ~.~

  ~Part 4 ~

  The Mad Heiress and the Rose Room Rout

  Chapter One

  Miss Georgette Quinby knew she should tell the Duke of Eversley what she and the other women discovered at Vauxhall about the spy. It was the right thing to do. It was the patriotic thing to do. She should put aside the petty hurt she had experienced when he stood her up, and she should write to him.

  Georgette punched the lovely embroidered pillow sitting next to her and sniffed. She did not want to write to him.

  Who did he think he was? Leaving her and Fanny without an escort, excepting Mr. Rupert Fellows, of course, who had turned out to be a lovely surprise, and one, Georgette secretly hoped would continue to woo Fanny. The man certainly had resources on a moment’s notice.

  Then the duke had come riding up upon them in the park as if he had done nothing wrong, without with a so much as by-your-leave. Never mind that he was a duke, he had no right to treat her so. She should be angry. No. She was angry, and hurt. Mostly, she was hurt. She punched the pillow again. She would not cry.

  Georgette had thought there was something between them, at least friendship, between her and the duke. Surely, they had friendship, but now, she didn’t know what their relationship should be. She only knew what she wanted it to be….What it could not be. Hadn’t she said she would never give her heart again after Sebastien? Hadn’t she learned her lesson? What was she doing?

  Georgette took a deep breath. She was an Englishwoman. For King and country, she could do nothing less than her patriotic duty. There was no help for it. She had to write to the duke. Yes. It was only duty. Then she would wash her hands of him. She would be done with him, and spying, and excitement, and the whole blasted lot. Her heart beat a quick tattoo at the thought.

  If only she had not overheard the Frenchman at Vauxhall. If only Delia had not been there to translate. Then she could have happily never communicated with him again, and life would be miserable. But no matter, life could not be lived according to "if only." If it could, she would have long ago said, “if only” Sebastien had loved her; “if only” she had not fallen down the stairs, and she supposed, with a sigh, he would be saying “if only” too. “If only” Blanche had not gone to France. “If only” Blanche had not been killed by the French rabble. Georgette had no right to wallow in self-pity. She was alive. She was English, and she could not let a spy have the upper hand. She would carry on. She had to get the thing done, and she would do it. She sniffled once and stood.

  Georgette walked over to the delicate writing desk tucked up against the wall and searched methodically for her pen and paper. Men had studies. They had whole rooms devoted to their business. Big desks weighed down by correspondence. She had no doubt the Duke sat in an ample leather chair behind a large slab of wood whenever he had matters to attend to, where everything was in its place, but she had no such luxury.

  Women had delicate writing desks with tiny drawers that didn’t fit the smallest of her books or full sized pieces of parchment. It did not matter if the woman was helping to catch spies from France, if they were managing estates or funds. Business was conducted on spindly legs.

  She quickly dashed out the note, keeping it deliberately vague in case it should fall into the wrong hands. Hopefully he would call on her once he received it, and she could explain it all in detail.

  She was almost certain that the Rose Room meeting would be at the Fletcher Masquerade. It fit the criteria --a ball and a Rose Room. The ball was in a few days, and fortunately she and Fanny had been invited, even if it was a delayed invitation only issued when they had become of interest to the ton. She did not personally know the Fletchers. Fanny claimed a passing acquaintance with the younger son, but had nothing especially favorable to say about the young man. If Georgette had not been noticed by the Duke, she would not have been invited to the ball at all. Luckily…or unluckily, she was invited. She folded the note, and sealed it, well aware that correspondence between two members of the opposite sex would be cause for scandal, but she could see no help for it. England was at stake. The spy must be caught.

  She called for a footman and requested the note be delivered to the Duke. His face was schooled to stillness, but she caught the censure in his eyes. No doubt the servants would gossip. Miss is passing clandestine notes to the Duke, they would say. She's gone and done it again, gone and fallen in love with a man who does not love her. She is making a fool of herself, setting her heart out on a platter for someone who will never want it. She is old enough to know better, and she was.

  Well, she still had her pride. She might have fallen in love with the duke, much to her dismay, but he did not need to know that. No one needed to know it. She would never embarrass herself again. She would tell him about the Frenchmen and the Fletcher Ball and that would be the end of it all. Georgette sucked in a sustaining breath. Perhaps they would not go to the Fletcher Ball at all. There were other outings where Fanny could see and be seen. She knew that the Duke would go to the ball to catch the spy, but there was no need for her to be seen with the Duke. She and Fanny would simply be elsewhere. She would guard her heart, even if it was a little late to be guarding.

  ~.~

  Chapter Two

  "A note was just delivered, Your Grace." It was James, holding the note on a platter. “Put it there,” Eversley said gesturing to the corner of the massive desk. There was little space among the Duke’s papers, but James managed.

  Eversley took the note absently. He was thinking about the spy.

  Since determining that it was not Merry who was the spy, Eversley had pulled James and Joseph off of their duties following him. He figured that if he showed himself to be at Merry's side during the afternoons and evenings, it was enough. Unfortunately, he had no idea who he should be following. He stood holding the note and James waited.

  He just wished Merry would stop gambling so much. The man never lost an exceptional amount; he at least seemed to be capable of reining himself in before he dug himself into a truly impossible hole. But it was all he did, every evening. Eversley looked forward to the day White called him off the case.

  In the meantime, he had agreed to show his face in Parliament, and begin attending to some of his more ducal duties. He had to admit that thi
s was not all bad. He was somewhat embarrassed that he had neglected his responsibilities for so long. Now, at long last, he could begin to rectify this.

  Even if the list was recovered, he knew his days as a spy were coming to an end. It was time to become a Duke.

  "From whom did it come?" he asked James, regarding the note.

  "Miss Quinby, I believe," James said.

  "I see," he said, “Thank you, James.”

  The servant recognized the dismissal and left the Duke alone. Had James expected the Duke to pen a reply?

  He stared at the note. Miss Quinby. His heart leapt at hearing she had sent him a note. She had acted so coolly to him in the park, and he had been taken aback by how much that had bothered him. But now she was sending him notes? It was quite improper. What was she on about?

  He knew he should not have abandoned her without an escort at the last minute. It was unacceptably rude. But surely now she understood that, despite their moment of closeness, there could be nothing between him. Sending him a note, however, reeked of desperation.

  He stared at it, and placed it back on the silver salver James had left behind.

  Best to just ignore it. Save her dignity. Nothing could come of their acquaintance.

  ~.~

  Chapter Three

  "Wake up, Georgette. Today is the day!"

  Fanny was in her room, fair bouncing on her bed. Georgette blinked awake and groaned.

  "Fanny, I see no reason why you need wake me at this hour. The ball is not until this evening. Let me sleep."

  "I can't," Fanny said. "I am simply aquiver with excitement."

  Georgette rolled over to stare at her young cousin. "Why can't you be aquiver without my company? I will join you later, after another hour or so of sleep."

  Fanny walked over and tugged the bedclothes down. "We've much to do," she said. "We've outfits to plan, and strategy to discuss."